


notes on the use of shadow in art, 1480

by empyrean



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings with porn really, M/M, Porn with Feelings, no beta we die like federico
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empyrean/pseuds/empyrean
Summary: In the spaces between the assassinations, there is peace. And art.Or, Ezio is an excellent life model and Leonardo is happy to take full advantage. There are feelings. And porn
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Leonardo da Vinci
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144





	notes on the use of shadow in art, 1480

‘What time is it?’ 

The question punctures a hole in the soft, oneiric spell that had settled over the small room. Leonardo’s charcoal pauses over paper, and he drops a free hand into the mass of silken dark hair at his hip.

‘A little before sunset. Do you need to head out?’

‘Mm, no. Just wondering if you should stop sketching, Leonardo. Or do the skills of the master give you to draw in the dark?’

‘Nothing so wonderful, but I have the last pieces of sunlight and the wonder of candles. If you aren’t going to leave, keep still, I have to finish your hands.’

Pliant and obedient despite being scolded like a young student, the great _assassino_ settles back against him, eyelashes scraping over bared skin. From where Leonardo is sitting with his back against the wall, Ezio lying tucked up against him, it looks like Ezio is drifting in that space between sleep and awake.

Leonardo quietly resumes his work, though working in broad sketches rather than fine detail - now he knows Ezio is awake, he has a matter of minutes before Ezio grows impatient and starts moving again.

But he still chances a glance up at his subject, now finally worn into as close a state of peace as he was ever likely to get.

The first hour is always the worst. Ezio his usual charming self but impatient, tense, prowling Leonardo’s rooms and putting him in mind of a caged wolf he’d once seen in Florence, brought down from the Alps by traders to entertain the masses. Rangy, thin, something parched and desperate in its eyes as it paced its new territory, an untamable creature separated from its pack. It had withered and died within the week, and Leonardo tries not to see it as an omen. He’s never had much use for such things.

Because then there is now. Ezio dozing at his side, eyelashes fluttering in a way he would once have called coy before he’d gotten to know Ezio habits as well as his own and he’d realized how little the man actually slept.

He sketches absentmindedly, hands, fingers, the long rolling plain of a naked suntanned back. They’re never quite right, he can never fold enough of the _anima_ of the man into the paper.

Or perhaps he’d make more progress without his constant need to touch his subject.

It gives him, possibly what should be to his shame, a quiet thrill - to touch boldly and without consequence. It draws him back to a time when Ezio had been his patroness’ tempting devil of a son. To be admired but not to be touched.

And after years studying the dead, feeling stiff sinew and unyielding flesh, having Ezio is like seeing the human body anew. Skin warm and supple, muscles that twitch as he feathers his hands over them and a body that shifts and moves with the gentle breath of its owner.

Ezio, generous soul that he is, takes the touching and prodding as easily as he does most things - shifting when nudged and allowing Leonardo to manipulate him as he pleases, watching his movements with a sleepy indulgence that speaks more of his trust than words ever could.

He runs his fingers over scars old and new. He’s not curious about them. He knows this body as well as his own, and those injuries he hadn’t stitched up himself he’d reviewed earlier that evening.

There’s always new scrapes and bruises, and Leonardo tuts over them while reminding Ezio to be more careful, for his sake at least. Lets Ezio roll his eyes good naturedly at the scolding while they both carefully sidestep around the idea that one day Ezio will fall through his door with injuries far beyond any human care. And Leonardo will have to watch as this wild sweet devil dances in and out of his own grave.

He traces the scar that splits the side of his mouth, smiling as Ezio tilts his head to kiss fingers as they pass by. It’s not ugly, Leonardo has heard many people - himself included - remark on how well it had healed, the clear but neat lines giving Ezio’s crooked smile a roguish charm.

But he’s never heard the story behind it. And while Ezio is normally generous with both his words and his body, here he had always flinched away, murmuring _Federico_ in a quiet, pained tone that spoke volumes.

He’d let it lie. Let the dead have their peace, there was little enough of it around as it was.

He drops his sketches on the floor and slides down to tuck his legs between Ezio’s. A hand resting on Ezio's hip as he watches the chiaroscuro from the sunset through the shutters play, light and dark making themselves at home in a body that uses both to its advantage. 

It’s an easy thing to admire, nature's own lighting at work.

And Ezio is _beautiful._

When they first met, he suspected Ezio would have probably taken offense to being called so. A man for women, confident and swaggering in a way that only underlined just how young he was.

Now though, when Leonardo murmurs _che bello_ Ezio just preens and stretches under the attention, grinning when his eyes darken.

Leonardo curls a hand around Ezio’s thigh, then runs a considering finger down Ezio’s cock and smiles with predatory interest when it twitches. 

‘Weren’t you tired?’ He asks, glancing up to meet narrowed dark eyes.

‘Don’t start something you have no interest in finishing, _maestro._ ’

‘I had an interest in finishing my sketches, but it seems the body of my study has a mind of its own.’

‘Ah, you just love me for my body.’

‘I love every part of you, Ezio.’

Ezio’s startled blink tells him he said it with too much weight to pass as a teasing joke. Still, there’s no regret in him. He’s lived too long now to bite his tongue about the things that matter. 

The slow, sweet, charmed smile that slowly blooms on Ezio’s face doesn’t hurt.

‘And I, you, my friend.’

Maybe it’s ridiculous he has hesitated up to this point. He has a handful of Ezio now and the man has been in his bed many a time up to this point. There have been other men and women, there will _be_ other men and women - he knows both of them too well to think otherwise. But in this time and in this bed he loves Ezio and Ezio loves him, and that, at least, is something not likely to change.

Ezio’s hips twitch, drawing his attention back to the man sprawled in his bed and smirking up at him. The softness still lingering around his eyes contrasting beautifully with the wickedness of his mouth.

‘You’re distracted. You have something more interesting to do, Leonardo?’

‘We-ell, I do have a commission for the Virgin and Child I should be working on.’

Ezio flops back, rolling his eyes in a groan robbed of any pleasure. ‘Please, can we not bring the blessed Madonna into bed with us?’

Leonardo just smiles, leans down to kiss the joint between Ezio’s shoulder and neck, waits for him to sigh softly before he bites down. Ezio jumps, swears quietly but seems to relax even further into his grip.

It’s one of those odd things about Ezio, that he commits every cardinal sin without hesitation but still invokes the name of the Lady.

And he has never been good at being a devout follower of the faith. His tastes in bed companions run contrary to the teachings, obviously, and he has always placed greater stock in what he can see and touch than the word from the pulpit.

He wonders what the Romans and Greeks of centuries past would have made of it. Would Catullus and Sappho have recognized, and understood? This god of sex and death, laughter and light that clambers in through the window and tumbles into bed, smiling with bloodstained teeth. 

Ezio reaches for him, drawing him close and grounding their hips together in a way that sets a low flame burning in his belly. His hand reaches down to join Leonardo’s, wrapping around both of their cocks. They’re both a little too tired for anything more active. He can feel sleep dragging at the corners of his eyes, see it in the slow deliberate movements of Ezio’s wrist.

But it’s perfect. Their bodies rolling together. The rasp of Ezio’s callused hands. He tilts his head to catch Ezio’s mouth with his, feeling the small groans as he tightens his fingers, the bite of teeth as Ezio nips at him in revenge. Still full of edges between his soft spots, the young eagle of the Auditores.

He drags his fingers up Ezio’s cock just to watch him shudder. Tilts his head to watch his hand work, to see the muscles on Ezio's stomach flutter and pull the skin stretched over the carved lines of his hip bones. Has to force his eyes to stay open against the slowly building pleasure, just so he can try to commit the sight to memory. Ezio ducks his head down to bury his face in Leonardo’s neck, and he can feel the breathy stuttering gasps as Ezio nears his end. He feels himself drawing tighter, pressing open mouthed kisses to what warm scarred skin he can reach.

Leonardo takes one long last look down at the pair of them lit by the last dregs of sunlight, limbs entwined, breath mingling, skin sliding together in the last golden hour of the day.

It’s perfect enough his climax is almost an afterthought, spill warm across his hand as Ezio shudders and groans next to him.

Ezio murmurs something incomprehensible but complimentary in tone, and turns to drag a discarded shirt nearer, snorting at Leonardo’s barely concealed disgust when he wipes them both down with it.

‘Don’t look at me like that, it already had paint on it.’

‘Ah, speaking of painting…’

‘No.’ Ezio rolls back over, slinging one bronzed leg over his hips and effectively trapping him against the bed.

‘Ezio, I wasn’t jesting - I do have to start working on that commission.’

Ezio snorts, a soft huff of breath against his shoulder. ‘Go to sleep, Leonardo. There is always another sunrise for you to work by.’

He could free himself, if he really insisted. He could throw off the leg, dig out his references and charcoals, endure Ezio’s needling comments until it was time for him to slip out into the dark and attend to his own less legal business. Maybe come back with wounds to be tended and stories to be heard. Maybe not come back at all.

He could do it. He could.

The sun continues to slip below the horizon. And in bed the artist and the assassin dream together.

**Author's Note:**

> Who still writes AC II fic 11 years later?
> 
> Me.


End file.
